It didn't pass
by AnadoraBlack
Summary: [Fleabag/Priest one-shot] It started innocently enough. And then, she's fully stalking him, just to keep him in her life somehow. It's maddening, but it's just what she needs... [Rated T for Fleabag's foul mouth]


_A/N: Good evening all! Soooo, after months of resisting because I was an idiot, and also because I knew perfectly well that I was going to be a mess afterwards, I binged Fleabag. And I fell for the Priest, because how could I not when Andrew Scott has spent almost ten years reducing me to a freaking mess? Anyway...I had to get something out of my chest, so I wrote this today._

_I feel like these two are going to inspire me a lot more pieces, so if you ever feel like there isn't enough Fleabag around here - there isn't - feel free to send me prompts! :D_

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_**Disclaimer:**__** I do not own Fleabag or any of the characters described herein. I only own the story I made up to heal our hearts.**_

* * *

_**It didn't pass…**_

* * *

It started innocently enough, to be fair.

It had to have been about two weeks after the dreaded wedding, the first time she got close to the church – she was passing by, mind you, not breaking her promise, how _dare_ you – and caught a glimpse of _him_.

These two weeks had been excruciating. In all honesty, she couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so _wrecked_ over losing someone…apart from Boo, that is. And Mum. Yeah, apart from those two, she had never felt this utterly devastated.

It seemed that, by walking away from that bus stop, walking _that_ way with _that_ backside and _that_ neck taunting her, he'd taken a part of her with him. She was ashamed to find herself wishing she'd kept a part of him with her too, sometimes.

She thinks that it's Claire who made her move from her bed after that. Claire who'd effectively gone after Klare, had effectively caught him at the airport, apparently snogging him senseless in the process, but had to book tickets and wait to join him in Finland for a good fuck session. She'd found her sister under three blankets – she was in shock, after all – with a half-eaten pint of Häagen-Dazs dripping ice-cream on the sheets, and four boxes of tissues scattered over her body.

Claire had taken her out of bed, helped her into cleaner clothes, fed her a better breakfast than heartbreak and tears, and had taken her with to pack her things. Then they went to the airport, and Claire left, telling her sister to 'Get the _fuck_ over that priest already'. Easier said than done.

* * *

And so, she'd found herself walking past the church, slowing down almost unconsciously to catch a glimpse of that fucker. And he'd been there. Sitting on that damned bench, smoking. He looked lost, like a puppy, and she had to fight the urge to just go to him. She'd promised.

It's how it's started. The first time had almost been fortuitous – she hadn't _really_ expected to see him, after all, honest – but the next times were not.

Like a drug. He was like a drug to her. Something she needed her fix of, without which she'd turn into an ice-cream eating mess.

She was doing better, strangely enough, after seeing him. After catching that goddamn glimpse of him in his colourful outfits – she _hated_ them now, for what they'd taken away from her – of his arms and his beautiful fucking neck.

It would have been funny, she guessed, if anyone had to pass by her when she trekked to the church, padding on her tiptoes like a teenager stalking a crush. More often than not, she hid in the bushes, waiting until he got out, clad in black or green – never plum, and never again white – then took her fill of him before leaving again.

_Pathetic._

But to everyone their own medicine, right? Nothing else worked. Not seeing him? Tried that, turned her into an almost-dead animal. Consulting again? Tried that too, got out of the room wanting a punch a wall. Trying to fuck her way out of having feelings for him? She tried that as well. Felt sick as soon as the guy – a true Blonde Pervert – pushed his tongue in her mouth.

Nope. Stalking was much more effective.

* * *

After a while – maybe a few months, maybe already a year, she couldn't say – she started following him away from church as well. She caught on some patterns. On some days, he'd go to Quakers meetings – she had half a mind to join him, because, after all, he hadn't forbidden her _that_, had he – on others, he'd visit various people, generally people who'd then show up at church for a funeral, a christening or a blessing.

Some days, fewer in regularity, he'd just go for a walk. Apparently lost in thought, he'd just walk, then turn back. Once, she caught sight of a fox following him. She would have shooed it away, but either she was scared he'd see her or she just secretly enjoyed the adorable frightened look on his face when he saw the beast, she didn't really know.

So she'd follow him. It wasn't as if she'd written out a little agenda of where and when to catch sight of him – she had, at first, but then had torn it away: she wasn't a creep – or as if it was turning into an obsession – it wasn't. It was just like…she just _needed_ him in her life, in any shape or form. To keep functioning.

Unsurprisingly, her feelings for him _didn't_ fade with time. Of course, her still seeing him didn't help, but it wasn't as if she didn't have a flock of arseholes just waiting for her to jump their bones and who could help her forget. She just couldn't forget. No matter what she tried.

When you've shared that kind of connection with someone, it's not _possible_ to forget.

When you've been _seen_, understood and so thoroughly loved you could die from happiness, you can't forget.

* * *

_Monday. 3pm. Walk around the block._

It was stupid, the way she'd thought wearing a black coat and sunglasses – in autumn – would help her pass incognito. But she stuck to it. Like the moron she was.

She knew where to sit in the park so she'd him pass, not close enough by that he'd notice her, but not far enough away that she wouldn't be able to admire him and his darned beautiful neck.

Except that day… Well, that day, there was a bicycle race in the park, and the only lane opened for passers-by was hers. Her heart started racing when she noticed him assess the bikes, turn a little on his heels, and decide to walk her lane.

It was close to bursting out of her chest as she wondered what to do. Flee? Stay put?

She was a coward, in that instance – she sometimes was, she had to admit – and stood so quickly from the bench that her coat got caught in a nail and ripped a bit.

"_Fuuuuuck!_" she cursed, and as soon as she said it, she knew she was well and truly that: fucked.

She raised her gaze, and there he was: about fifteen feet away, staring at her, wide dark eyes lovely and stunned and also pained. Really pained.

She pursed her lips, turned away, and all but ran away.

He didn't follow.

* * *

Except he did, in a way.

After being caught, she crossed several days off her stupid agenda, and decided to tone it down. To stick to hiding in bushes on Sundays and Wednesdays – when it wasn't Chatty Wednesdays, of course – when he wouldn't see her. It was hard, like quitting smoking, but she managed.

She was bringing his order to a client – unsurprisingly, one of those who plugged in their computer and didn't say a word unless they asked for coffee – when she caught sight of a dark silhouette outside.

_He_ was there. Standing on the pavement opposite her, just looking at her. Hands in his pockets, eyes wide and earnest. She stared back, fought her urge to go outside and jump his bones – it was extremely hard not to – and then turned away.

From that day on, they stalked each other.

She'd keep on sneaking peeks at church, feeling more and more naughty as she did – because, invariably, she'd be ogling him and _wanting_ him, which ended up with her and her vibrator having a little heart-to-heart too often to not be frustrating – and some days, she'd venture out to see him exit the Quakers' meeting.

He'd come to stand by the café, watching her, almost every Tuesday. He'd just watch, and his eyes would always glisten with _something_ when their gazes met.

She didn't always see him, he was good at hiding, almost as good as her, but once she'd seen him a few seats behind her in the cinema, trying to blend in inconspicuously – and failing – she understood he'd come to that part when he'd just try to see her whenever he could.

Just what she had done a few weeks back.

He wasn't always discreet, but they never did anything more than stare at each other. Acknowledge that they'd been seen, that they _knew_. That they needed this.

* * *

One time, she read the parish newspaper, eager to see which restaurant he'd gone to the last time – maybe she'd discover a new one worth her time, through him – and had to put it aside as Claire and Klare Skyped her to announce – oh surprise – that they were moving in together.

And Claire to repeat to her sister that she needed to 'Get the _fuck_ over that priest already, it's getting fucking old'.

Perhaps it was. But it was pretty fucking good to be a moron.

* * *

It probably was the date that did it.

_A year._ A year they'd stalked and stared and pined and stared again.

Twelve fucking months. She hadn't had a decent fuck in _twelve fucking months_. Fuck her to Hell. (Oh, well, she probably had already earned a medal down there for sleeping with a priest, so…)

It had to have been a record, she reckoned. She'd have almost considered testing celibacy for real – like, no wanking either – just to test it, if she just hadn't been able to think about him without wanting to touch herself after.

Frustration was a super duper shitty thing.

That day, she didn't stalk him. She had instead to suffer through dinner with Dad and Stepmother – who'd been upgraded from her Godmother status – since Claire wasn't there and they weren't going to invite Martin over, thank God.

She sat through it and listened to Stepmother talk and brag and touch Dad in inappropriate ways – except it wasn't inappropriate, they were _married_ now – and managed not to make a scene. It was surprising to all present, her included.

Not once did Dad or Stepmother ask her anything personal.

She wished _he_'d been there to _see_ her.

Then caught herself thinking she was a fucking idiot.

* * *

She wasn't _that_ drunk when she got home, which was great. She had all the time in the world to get undressed, put up a jumper she was sure had belonged to Harry at one point but that served as a nightie of sorts, and slide into comfy slippers before the bell rang.

Any other time, she'd have been expecting a call at 2am. She'd have been in lingerie hidden under a coat, waiting at the door with lipstick on, ready to lose hours of sleep.

This time, she didn't expect anyone to ring her bell. In a moment of panic, she imagined having unknowingly invited some ex over, then caught herself: she wasn't drunk enough to have done _that_.

So she slipped into the hallway, eyed the door and the silhouette she could see behind the opaque glass, and waited. Maybe that stranger would just leave.

They rang the bell again.

She opened, partly because she was curious and partly because she was worried one of her neighbours would shout insanities at her for waking them up through night-time visitors.

It was _him_.

Of course it was.

She should have guessed.

He was there, in his usual dark suit, dog collar showing, eyes glistening and hands in pockets, staring at her as if she was the freaking sun. (Except, if she'd been the sun, he'd have squinted, but never mind.)

She stared, he stared. She breathed out, he breathed out. Her lips pulled into a shy smile, his did the same.

Damn him, he was _beautiful_.

It was perhaps hours until they did anything else than just gaze amorously at each other, but she didn't mind. She'd looked at him enough that past year, but he'd never been that close when she had, and she found she had missed the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. She also had missed that _damning beautiful neck_.

She took one deep breath, at last, when it felt like her heart would stop functioning any second. Then she took another deep breath, and another again.

And then, she said "It didn't pass."

He breathed out, almost a laugh, but also almost a sob. And his glistening eyes, now filled with tears, she understood, met hers as he answered "It didn't pass."

Staring wasn't healthy when you said things like that, so she just grabbed his hand and gently pulled him inside.

The door hadn't closed that they were already kissing.

It felt like Heaven and Hell all in one sweep.

But damn her to eternity, she'd missed this.


End file.
